CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Henry is ushered inside where he finds himself standing within a large and brightly lit vestibule. Blinking into candlelight he sets his portmanteau down on the flagstone floor and looks about him, wide-eyed.

In front of him a broad oak staircase almost fills the entire space, its newels capped with formidable-looking points. The ceiling is high with richly moulded cross-beams, and set into every wainscoted wall are large panelled doors leading off to other parts of the house. But what draws the gaze – indeed, it can scarce be missed – is a magnificent fireplace boxed in by an elegant sopha and armchair. Made of intricately carved stone it spans the height of floor to ceiling, and at the very central point of the mantle there is engraved a symbol. Though fatigued to the point of faintness Henry recognises it instantly: it is the very same symbol that was imprinted onto the wax seal of his letter.

‘You are very welcome here. Very welcome indeed!’

He turns. The older man is reaching out his left hand for him to shake. Henry takes it. ‘Are you Lord Tresilian?’

‘I am indeed,’ comes the reply.

Henry studies the tall man in front of him. In his profession he has become accustomed to marking the tenor of a person by sight alone (dead or otherwise), a skill which made him such a favourite of Bow Street’s finest. Lord Tresilian, Henry deduces by the lined contours of his face and shock of thick black hair with only a light peppering of grey, appears to be in his fifties. Not an old man by any means, but the silver-topped cane he holds is telling; he grips it tightly (too tightly) and there is an odd pallor to the man’s skin, his lips are pale, his cravat a margin loose at the neck. How long, Henry thinks, has the man been ill?

‘Have you eaten?’ he asks, releasing Henry’s hand. ‘Do say you haven’t! I instructed you to be brought up to the house for the sole purpose of welcoming you to Penhelyg. Such a long journey you must have had, all that way by road!’

Gratified by the gesture, Henry shakes his head. ‘I’ve had nothing since the coaching inn at Welshpool this morning.’

At that Lord Tresilian clicks the fingers of his free hand, and as he does so a gold signet ring on the fifth digit glints in the candlelight.

‘Splendid,’ he says as the man and woman who appeared behind him in the doorway step forward. ‘Mrs Evans, please bring a tray for Dr Talbot to my study.’

There is the briefest of pauses before the woman named Mrs Evans dips her knees. She is an elderly creature with skin that reminds Henry of damp wrinkled silk, age-spots smattering her face like oversized freckles. Snow-white hair peeks from beneath a mobcap patched with yellowed darning .

‘Thank you,’ Henry says, managing his first genuine smile in days. ‘I cannot tell you how welcome that would be.’

He addresses both his host and Mrs Evans, but the housekeeper (Henry presumes she is the housekeeper) appears disinclined to look at him as she shuffles past. His new employer leans forward conspiratorially.

‘Forgive her peevishness, Henry. Might I call you Henry? She is not particularly welcoming of strangers at present.’

‘Oh?’

‘A family bereavement, I’m afraid.’

His dark eyes rove over Henry’s features, gaze unnervingly intent, but then he coughs into his fist and turns away. He wipes his hand with a handkerchief, tucks it away into his finely tailored sleeve.

‘Come. Powell, our butler, will bring you a glass of port while you wait.’

Henry looks at the other man. Broad-shouldered as already observed, he is nonetheless squat in stature with a sour face made all the more unpleasant by the old-fashioned periwig he wears; a dull flax colour too long in the front, its curls untamed, which he dips in the direction of his master.

‘Very good, my lord.’

Strong Welsh lilt, deeply gravelled. Polite enough, but Henry is sure he detects a mark of recalcitrance in his tone, and he watches the man walk off toward a plain door tucked behind the cavernous staircase.

‘Come,’ Lord Tresilian says again, just as Henry’s driver walks through into the vestibule, depositing his trunk in the middle of the floor.

‘Thank you,’ Henry attempts in Welsh, and for a brief moment the bearded man stares at him before shrugging and retreating back the way he came, the crunch of gravel loud and hurried. Trying not to feel offended Henry lets his host guide him into a dimly lit hallway and thence into a room tucked neatly off to the left.

It is a large room, grandly furnished, but though its decor is bejewelled and rich, there is something about it that seems to swallow light; the armchairs are upholstered in maroon, the ornate furniture is oiled mahogany, the vermilion-coloured walls filled with pictures, none of which serve to brighten it. Henry stares up at those paintings, struck by their fantastical scenes. Exotic beasts look out from dark canvases, angels cry through torrid clouds. One painting depicts the fall of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden where, halfway up a tree, is entwined a serpent with a human head and arms, offering the damned pair an apple.

Another fireplace here of a more staid and appropriate size is flanked by a mahogany sideboard on top of which sits a baroque globe of the world and a small gun cabinet holding an elegant flintlock pistol. On the other side stands a cabinet which reaches up to the corniced ceiling, devoted it seems to expensive trinkets. Different-sized compartments hold within them a velvet tray of mounted ancient coins, a group of bronze miniature columns, a model of what looks to be a Roman ship cast in marble, a fine set of plaster intaglios.

‘Treasures from my excursions abroad,’ their owner says with pride, seeing Henry’s gaze stray. ‘Many I collected during the Grand Tour when I was a youth. The places I’ve seen! Paris and Versailles, Florence and Pisa, the more obscure locales of Baden and Passau. So many treasures to be found there. Never was I happier in my life than I was then, the world so completely at my feet.’

Henry has known men like this – men born to privilege for whom the Grand Tour is a rite of passage, a culmination of their expensive education. In Henry’s experience, a person cannot ever have the world completely at one’s feet without knowing what world it is one treads within. It is clear to Henry – from the trinket cabinet alone to the lushly decorated study and the very house in which they stand – that his lordship lives a rarefied existence, and therefore he cannot match the older man’s enthusiasm. Still, it is not his place to voice such thoughts aloud, so Henry forces a smile and politely says, ‘You’re lucky indeed, sir, and it’s a fine collection. Most fine.’

Lord Tresilian smiles at the compliment. ‘A modest collection. But nothing at all to these …’

He gestures with a wide sweep of his arm, and Henry looks to where the older man indicates.

At the far end of the room stands a deep mahogany desk; behind it, five rows of bookcases spanning from one side of the wall to the other, filled to the brim. In the centre of the case – propped up on an ornate stand – is a book far larger than the rest.

‘Let me show you,’ his lordship says, guiding Henry down to the other end of the room, and pinioned in his gentle grip Henry has no choice but to follow.

They come to a stop just past the desk. Lord Tresilian surveys the shelves with a look of unmistakable pleasure.

‘Magnificent, are they not? These are where my passions lie.’ He rests his weight on his cane. ‘The Tour, you know, opened my eyes to many wondrous things besides travel and women. Books, Henry, the source of all knowledge! What do you think of them?’

Diligently, Henry looks. Up close he sees the shelves are encased behind glass doors, the surfaces shining, devoid completely of dust. He cranes his head, takes the books in shelf by shelf, reminded of that obscure Piccadilly bookshop. The seller told him while he was wrapping the dictionary that some of his stock was so old it was best for their preservation to be kept behind glass, and so Henry wonders now just how old these volumes are. He steps closer to read the spines. On some, the leather is so cracked with age it makes the words almost unintelligible, but others are clearly wrought in gilt lettering: Compendium Rarissimum Totius , Petit Albert, Libro de San Cipriano, Epistolae Theosophicae …

Expensive, these. The contents of one bookcase alone would have cost him several years’ rent. Henry clears his throat.

‘Indeed. They are beautiful volumes.’

‘Oh, they are far more than that,’ comes the answer. ‘Beautiful, yes, but what they contain …’ Lord Tresilian shakes his head a little. ‘There is something to be said about esoteric philosophy and the ancient sciences. The old world, you see, has endless wonders just waiting to be discovered. I have,’ he continues, ‘at least two hundred books on necronomics and ancient religious practices, on classical invocations, hermetic philosophy, Babylonian mysticism … I discovered my first in Italy –’ here he points to a volume on a top shelf, though there are so many that it is impossible to make out which precisely he refers to – ‘and it set about a lifelong fascination. Each place I went I made it a quest of mine to discover a new text. The bookshops in Athens are quite remarkable, as are those in Rome and Montpellier, but it’s off the beaten track in Brandenburg that I found some of my most valuable pieces.’

He presses the silver ball of his cane.

‘Many were difficult to acquire.’ He pauses, clears his throat, and Henry hears within it a wet, thick-sounding bubble. ‘Still, I have my sources now, all over Europe.’

Henry nods at the larger book, resting high on its plinth. ‘And this?’

‘Ah,’ Lord Tresilian breathes. ‘This.’

He moves behind the cavernous desk to stand in front of that middle bookcase, reaches out, touches the glass protecting the book with an almost-caress. His fingertips have a clubbed appearance, the nails curving downward, and Henry realises then why his host’s face holds such an odd pallor.

Lord Tresilian is a dying man.

‘This,’ he says softly, ‘is very special to me. Very special indeed.’

Henry waits for him to elaborate but when he does not, only stares admiringly at the book behind its glass casing, Henry comes to stand beside his new employer.

Until that moment the light from the room was thrown upon the glass, but now he stands before it Henry can see the thing clearly. It is a great tome of a book bound in thick black leather, a gold clasp holding its gilt-edged pages shut. He bends closer; a raised symbol juts from the cover, set in a circle that spans the width of the front. It is the exact replica of the one above the fireplace in the vestibule, and the wax seal on the letter offering him employment at Penhelyg:

Henry means to ask what the symbol is but Lord Tresilian coughs, pointing at another item which rests at the base of the book, a piece of rock on a small square of black velvet.

‘You see this?’

‘I do.’

The man turns to him with another proud smile. ‘Gold.’

Henry frowns. His host chuckles.

‘Of course, it does not look like gold, but see at the bottom those tiny flecks of yellow? It was the first we found in the mines. Near thirty years ago now.’

‘I see.’

At that moment a yawn threatens to escape, and Henry must press a hand to his mouth to shield it.

‘Forgive me, sir, I—’

‘No, no, please forgive me. Here I am wittering away while you’re barely able to stand. Come,’ Lord Tresilian says, steering Henry once more to the other end of the room. ‘You’ve had a long journey, I quite understand.’

Henry is ushered into a large armchair of red damask in front of the fire. The older man settles down into his own armchair opposite, carefully crosses one long leg over the other so as not to disturb the small table set between the chairs, and Henry does not miss the wince of pain as he does. If Lord Tresilian is indeed ailing as he suspects, then he can be forgiven for finding whatever pleasures he can, eccentric as they are, and so, feeling a little guilty for his less than enthused responses, Henry remarks, ‘It truly is a vast collection. Surely you did not procure them all on a single tour of the Continent?’

His lordship smiles, dips his head. ‘I did not. I only purchased three from that first excursion, but the Tour gave me a taste for adventure and for many years I journeyed all over the world. Indeed, I was very well-travelled. I should like to be again. Alas, my health does not allow it.’

There is a pause then in which the older man places his clubbed fingers together.

‘A canker in my lungs, I’m afraid.’

Here, at least, is an answer to one of his unasked questions. Henry looks at the man’s fingertips. The illness must be approaching its zenith, if the severity of his malformation is anything to judge by.

‘What have you been advised?’

A grimace. ‘That it is deeply rooted, and an operation will be of little use.’

‘I’m sorry. I can examine you, if you like? Offer a second opinion …’

But his new employer is waving Henry off. ‘I’ve already been prodded and poked beyond my patience. I know what fate awaits me, unless …’

‘Unless?’

He says nothing more. Something wavers in his face – a look of sadness, a pitiable desperation – and Henry wishes he could help him.

‘Please,’ the older man says finally. ‘Let us not speak of it. The notion of it distresses me. What of you? Are you well-travelled?’

Henry blinks. ‘No, sir. I’ve never left London before now.’

This is not strictly true. He vaguely remembers a farm in the countryside and chasing chickens in the yard, hay bales in summer, a pond where a kindly man had taken him fishing, happy times which, now, are mere whispers of memories that disappear like vapour the moment he tries to catch them …

‘Indeed!’ Lord Tresilian exclaims. ‘Yet you are a man of languages.’

‘I am?’

His lordship tilts his chin in the direction of the hallway. ‘You spoke Welsh before.’

‘I attempted Welsh,’ Henry corrects. ‘When I discovered I was to come here I made it my duty to learn. I shall need to know the language, after all.’

The older man looks thoughtful. ‘A commendable notion, I suppose. I find Welsh to be such an uninteresting language. I much prefer the rigours of Latin and its variations. Welsh is no use to my studies.’

‘But living here surely the language would be useful?’

A smile. ‘I’m an Englishman by birth, and rarely spend time here except when circumstances necessitate it. I actually live in London.’

‘Oh!’

‘I didn’t say, did I? Forgive me, so much on my mind! The truth of it is that I arranged your employment on behalf of my cousin, Linette. It is she who is mistress here at Plas Helyg but she had no means of orchestrating the task, and so I took it upon myself to assist her.’

Henry is surprised. If Lord Tresilian hails from London this explains, then, how he should have come to know about his circumstances, but this cousin, Linette … this is new. He is about to press the matter when Powell enters the room carrying a tray with two generous glasses balanced upon it. The butler leans down to proffer them, the deep red liquid glinting in the flame of the fire. Henry claims one and takes a large sip. It is good port, expensive port – rich and smooth with no bitter sediment – and he closes his eyes at the pleasant burn in his throat.

‘You needed that, I see! Powell, stay, in case our guest wishes for another.’

As the port warms the seat of his belly Henry allows himself to relax. When he opens his eyes, it is to see Lord Tresilian taking a sip from his own glass, watching him over its crystal rim.

‘Now then. I invited you here to welcome you, as I said, before you’re taken to the gatehouse.’

‘The gatehouse, sir?’

‘Julian, please.’ A pause. ‘Yes, the gatehouse.’ He sits forward a little in his seat. ‘It’s been a long-held tradition that all family physicians live at the gatehouse, to be close at hand, you understand. I regret there is no live-in maid, but Mrs Evans and the other servants at Plas Helyg will see to it that all your comforts are amply accommodated for.’

Henry inclines his head. ‘Thank you. I’m most indebted, to be sure.’

Julian waves off his words of gratitude as if they were gnats.

‘Do not thank me quite so soon, for I’m afraid there was another reason I wanted to see you before you settled in. I felt, you see, it could not wait.’

His new employer sets down his glass of port on the marquetry table between them.

‘Linette is the daughter of Lady Gwenllian, the widow of my cousin, Hugh Tresilian.’

He pauses. Henry waits.

‘My dearest Gwen,’ Julian continues, his expression sage, ‘has a marked countenance of mind. You will examine her in due course, but you’ll discover she is much weakened in both body and intelligence. It has been presumed for many reasons that she is a madwoman.’

‘A madwoman?’

Henry’s stomach sinks. He is, if not wholly experienced, familiar with the type. Has he not treated criminals in Bedlam on request of Bow Street often enough? Still, he wants to advise his host that he is no mad-doctor, that he has no wish to take up that mantle, but the older man is speaking again.

‘You must forgive me for not mentioning it before when I wrote to you but I confess, I feared you would not accept the role.’

Henry suppresses a sigh, for the man suspects correctly. But then, what choice did he have, in the end?

‘I do not believe there can be much done except to keep her comfortable,’ his employer continues. ‘I care deeply for Gwen, and ask only that you ensure her continued care, to ease any distresses as and when they arise.’

Distresses. It is a mild word for what Henry knows is really meant. He thinks of those poor wretches in Bethlam Hospital, confined to their cells. Their tortured screams, their fearsome violence. No amount of leeching or blistering or any other of those more barbaric customs can help them. Indeed, Henry is positive such treatments only make matters worse.

‘I shall do my very best,’ he says now. ‘Madness cannot be cured, after all, only managed.’

At the fireplace Powell shifts on his feet.

Julian inclines his head. ‘I am comforted you agree. But,’ he adds, ‘my telling you of Gwen was merely a prelude.’

‘Prelude?’

‘I wished to warn you of Linette.’

Henry waits. Julian reclaims his port and takes another sip, an earnest expression in his dark eyes.

‘My ward –’ he stops, corrects himself – ‘the woman who used to be my ward, is very dear to me, but a strange creature with little interest in the pursuits many of her position take enjoyment from. Linette has no great talent for music or dancing or embroidery, nor languages either except that of this country and our own. Indeed, no governess could manage her, and I’m afraid that in my fondness I let her follow her inclinations a little too far. She spends all her time immersed in the business of the estate, refusing the help of my agent and our fellow landowners, and her relationship with the villagers is … Well, it is all rather unbecoming. Her temper, too, is questionable. Indeed, she has a sharp tongue when she chooses to use it and is not an easy companion. I confess, it makes me wonder if something more sinister is at play.’

Henry represses the urge to quirk a brow.

‘Not all females,’ he says carefully, ‘are suited to the more genteel of pursuits, or conform to ladylike manners. That does not make her mad.’

Powell shifts from one foot to the other once more. Julian, it appears, does not notice.

‘But there is something unusual about her,’ he persists, and the expression on his face is full of concern. ‘She flouts convention at every opportunity. She really is very wild. At six-and-twenty I rather hoped she would grow out of it, but time has only made her worse …’ A shadow crosses his face. ‘Gwen was the same age when she first began to exhibit signs. Truly, I worry about Linette a great deal.’

Henry contemplates this. ‘Does insanity run in the family? Beyond Lady Gwenllian, I mean.’

Julian hesitates. He looks troubled by the idea.

‘On the Tresilian side, no. On the Cadwalladr, I can’t be sure. Emyr, her grandfather, was prone to moods of melancholy but …’ he trails off. ‘Gwen’s condition, however, cannot be denied, nor the fact that Linette acts so strangely.’ Julian shakes his head. ‘As I say, I worry most dreadfully. I hope, as her physician, you will keep an eye on her when business takes me back to London tomorrow. It would bring me such comfort.’

Thoughtfully Henry takes a sip of his port. He had received very little information about either woman in Julian’s letter offering him the position as Penhelyg’s physician:

You would be required to undertake the treatment of Lady Gwenllian Tresilian of Plas Helyg, a genteel widow of general ill-health and delicate constitution. Further attention is to be given to her daughter, together with the estate’s servants, as and when required. In addition, you would be prevailed upon to undertake the treatment of the residents of Penhelyg, acting in the capacity of village doctor.

Henry had sneered vehemently at first. While the role of a physician holds far more respect than that of a surgeon and the potential for a much deeper purse, Henry always found it an unexciting enterprise, preferring the ever-changing halls of Guy’s Hospital and then, later, the thrill of attending cases under Bow Street’s jurisdiction. In London he had been a celebrated surgeon, a lecturer of science. Though the salary offered in Penhelyg was amply generous, for Henry, a village doctor was a great step down indeed. But when it became clear no other offers were forthcoming – each of his queries was met with cold hard silence – Henry realised he had no choice but to accept. As the weeks leading up to his departure passed, he allowed himself to become accustomed to the notion, had conjured in his mind a woman suffering from nothing more than maidenly swoons, or perhaps a weakness attributed to the effects of childbirth on account of the daughter mentioned. He had imagined an entitled pompous woman, or perhaps a mulish one, and as for the daughter … well, he had assumed she was a mere child. Now he finds she is mistress of this great estate and – quite possibly – touched by the same affliction as her mother.

What on earth have I agreed to?

‘I shall watch her keenly, Lord Tresilian, of that you can rest assured.’

Belying his concerns Henry uses a mollifying tone, one he has employed in the past with troublesome elders who presumed to tell him how best to conduct his treatment of their kin. It happened often when they saw his age. His lordship, though, flushes with pleasure.

‘Thank you,’ he says warmly. ‘I’m most gratified, most gratified indeed.’

Henry nods his rejoinder, takes a sip of port; as he places the glass back down upon the marquetry table he marks the butler’s gaze lingering on him – unfriendly, hard as hail.

‘May I ask?’ Henry ventures now, tearing his own gaze away. ‘You said that Linette was your ward?’

Julian nods. ‘Until she attained her majority. But as owner of Penhelyg’s mines I’ve maintained a presence here, and I’m still a trustee of the estate. As a consequence I take some responsibility for the needs of both herself and Gwen. Linette does not leave the village, after all.’

‘Not ever?’

‘She has no wish to.’

‘I see.’ Mentally he marks this. ‘And why is she not yet married?’

Julian ghosts a smile. ‘Linette shows no interest in that, either.’

Henry marks this too. Still, the butler stares.

‘Where are they?’ Henry asks. ‘Lady Tresilian and Linette?’

A look of discomfort crosses Julian’s features before he shields it with a sigh.

‘Gwen is abed. Linette, however …’ He trails off, shoots a glance at Powell. ‘I take it she has not yet returned?’

‘Not as yet, my lord.’

Julian sighs. ‘You see what I mean, Henry? Past dark and still abroad at so late an hour. Linette truly is a wildling, has not one regard for her own well-being or those that care for her.’ He sits back in his seat with an expression now of deep concern. ‘You must understand – I think of Linette as if she were my own daughter. I truly fear her mother’s madness might have tainted her.’

There is a step at the threshold, and both Henry and Julian look up to find the housekeeper standing at the door, a dinner tray in hand.

‘Ah, splendid,’ Julian says in a much brighter tone. ‘Please, Mrs Evans, bring it in. Our guest will be ravenous! You’ll forgive me for not joining you – I dined earlier. I couldn’t be sure of the time of your arrival.’

Mrs Evans has placed the tray down onto the table and the offering, Henry marks, is exceedingly generous – a small chicken, its skin cooked to a perfect golden crisp accompanied by a jug of bread sauce; a tureen of fresh minted greens; a portion of buttered potatoes. Like the port, Henry can see this is expensive fare. Never would he have eaten so richly in London. His purse-strings could simply never stretch that far.

‘Thank you, Mrs Evans,’ he says faintly, and the old woman dips her knees in response. She does not look at him. Instead, she keeps her focus so intently on the ornate rug that Henry feels her gaze would burn a hole in it if the notion were at all possible.

‘A most excellent dish, I think,’ says Julian now. ‘I never allow mediocre cooking when I am in residence.’ He clears his throat with another fleshy rumble. ‘That will be all, Mrs Evans.’

‘Yessir.’

‘You may go too, Powell. Leave the port.’

There is a pause. Then the bewigged man fills their glasses once more before placing the decanter next to Henry’s tray.

‘Very good, my lord.’

As Powell moves to go Henry tries to catch his eye, but the butler’s features are as blank now as a redcoat at orders, and so giving in to his hunger Henry applies himself to his plate.

The bird is tender, its skin beautifully seasoned, and the bread sauce melts deliciously on his tongue. It is (Henry is quite sure of the fact) the best meal he has ever eaten. Julian watches, breaking the silence with observations from his travels – the unmarked beauty of Italy, the dry heat of Jerusalem, the icy climes of Austria in winter – but, at length, Henry begins to tire. All he can think of now is the prospect of finally sleeping in a comfortable bed with a proper mattress, a bowl of warm water with which to wash off the dirt of the day. It is just as Henry is trying to conjure the right words to beg his leave without appearing rude that there comes a loud bang like that of a heavy door swinging open against a wall, and the hurried echo of footsteps on stone.

Julian’s dark brows draw together so hard that a deep groove appears between them like a gully.

‘And there,’ he murmurs, ‘is our errant dove.’ He loudly clears his throat. ‘Linette!’

The footsteps stop. Henry can almost hear the reluctance in the pause that follows. Then the footsteps start up again, together with a strange clicking, almost immediately softened by the soft runner in the corridor. As one Henry and Julian look to the doorway where in that very moment a woman appears at the door.

Uncommonly tall, she holds the frame with long-fingered hands. Her cheeks are flushed, and across her shoulders there hangs a mass of long blonde hair that looks as if it has not seen a brush in days. Yet this is not the most surprising thing about Linette Tresilian. No indeed, what takes Henry by surprise is the fact that she wears from head to foot the ill-fitting clothes of a man.

Flouts conventions, her cousin had said. Indeed, there can be no more proof of the claim than this !

A grey dog pushes its way in between her thigh and the door frame, surveys the room before resting its gaze on Henry himself, cocking its head. Henry marks its dark wiry coat, its long snout and flopping ears. A lurcher, he recognises. The governor at Guy’s had a sighthound much like it, before he offered the poor beast up to a surgeon’s knife.

‘My dear Linette.’ Julian’s voice is low now, tired. ‘Where have you been?’

Linette Tresilian looks slowly between Julian and Henry, eyes bright as if with fever.

‘Cousin,’ she says finally, and her grip on the door frame is so hard her knuckles are white. ‘It has been destroyed.’